Ain't No Rest for the Wicked
by RemnantRaven38
Summary: Raven drifted off to sleep each night with thoughts of the glasshouse or her recent missions or her training with Wing playing through her mind. But as the night progressed the thoughts changed into foreboding and grotesque scenes. Often she was roused by the sounds of her own anguished screams and was unable to stop the tears that streamed silently down her cheeks.
1. Losing Sleep

Ravens throat bore the rough texture of sandpaper; the result of her cries. Often she was regarded as someone with profuse amounts of self-control, it was hard to provoke her if she didn't want to be; but in her sleep she couldn't control thoughts and dreams. She couldn't control herself. She was vulnerable.

Anguished screams emanating from her own two lungs disturbed her sleep, the images she'd witnessed haunting her waking hours.

Notorious for being void of emotion, Raven loved very few people and considered them her greatest weakness and a hindrance. She drifted off to sleep each night with thoughts of the glasshouse or her recent missions or her training with Wing playing through her mind. But as the night progressed the thoughts changed into foreboding and grotesque scenes. Instead of training Wing she was fighting against him and the room was composed of hundreds of onlookers who watched as Wing bowed to her weakly like a gladiator greeting Caesar before they died for his and the audiences entertainment. When she was in the glass house the children around her assumed the faces of people she knew. Sometimes Anastasia and Pietor, sometimes Cypher and Number One; just as often, though, the savage children were Dimitri and Tolya, Wing or Diabolous; sometimes one of them would be Max. In her dream she would knock him to the floor and watch as crimson trails of blood weaved around the white tiles. She would drag him off the floor and onto her hard mattress, screaming and weeping over the still warm body, crying relentlessly that it was a game, a game that she always played! A game! Then the sounds of her screams would rouse her and she would sit in the darkness, the atmosphere hollow and empty, silent tears streaming down her face as she swore never to sleep again lest she go insane.

Lack of sleep due to nightmares had made her sloppy and unable to concentrate, she made a futile attempt at disarming Wing but in the process was reminded of the way his face was depicted in some of her dreams after she had murdered him: in the rictus of death. She dropped her sword and stumbled back. Wing seized the opportunity and Raven offered little resistance as the young man dexterously disarmed her.

'Well done.' She rasped, her voice raw and riddled with fatigue.

Wing noticed her obvious wariness and raised an eyebrow, 'Is everything ok?' He inquired, aware that his instructor had yielded without much of a fight but he had presumed it was deliberate at least to some extent. He wasn't so sure now.

'I'm fine.' She replied firmly, stifling a yawn.

Wing didn't want to push the matter so he adopted a fighting stance indicating he wanted to resume the training. Raven swung from the left, her clenched fist approaching his rib cage. Wing countered the attack, forming a block with his forearms and preventing her from doing any damage. To Ravens advantage, Wing didn't realize his mistake of leaving the right side of his rib age unguarded and immediately felt the brutal impact of Raven's foot. He reached out and grabbed, twisted and pushed backwards forcefully. Flipping using the momentum, Raven regained her balance. Her position provided many opportunities to attack and she would've defeated him if another painful stab of recollection from her dreams hadn't caused her to hesitate. In the time she was immobile she received a blow to the head and, already weak, she collapsed sideways.

Her inert body lay in the artificial, pale white glow of the lamps that were abundant throughout the school.

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	2. Dear Glasshouse

After five days of drug induced slumber it became clear that the nightmares were far from stopping; even the strongest sedatives couldn't suppress the traumatic result of severe post traumatic stress disorder. It was getting worse. Stinging needles were injected into her veins for sustenance and prolonged sleep. Having awoken twice it was clear that the medicine did nothing for ones clarity. Despite forcing the assassin to remain suspended in an unrelenting nightmare, the sleep would allow her to rest.

Nero slept in an armchair beside her bed, he needed to make sure she was ok. She wasn't but his presence was soothing. The first time Raven had awoken had been the worst; Her heart beating erratically, she was gasping for breath and screaming but to no avail; the images would not relent. She was groping the thin sheets to find something to hold onto, sweating profusely. Nero grabbed her wrists to stop her violent convulsions and when they eased he sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and kissed her lightly on the forehead. 'Its ok.' He whispered and soon the sedatives once again took her consciousness and she returned to the dreams. The second time she awoke was similar if more mellow.

A sudden increase in her vitals recorded the next time she awoke but she didn't make a sound. Nero remained in his slumber. Instead she took a deep breath and listened to the steady beat of her fractured heart; I am, I am, I am. From the re-assuring brag she gained strength and the tears ceased. A soft moan escaped her lips and she felt the weight of all her trauma straining her bones. Wordlessly and calmly she pulled the needles from her body and slowly sat up, entertaining the thought of taking a shroud and leaving. She couldn't leave, she had no where to go and no one to love; no one to make her human. Instead she walked to her own quarters and slept in her own bed. Dreams of the glasshouse resumed, but they weren't nightmares. It was a dream of what she would say if she was able, what she would say to the place that made her Raven.

Dear Glasshouse, she thought. A dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to know that you inspired it. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. We cross our bridges as we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and the presumption that once our eyes watered."

From, your consequence.

A/N: The letter to the glasshouse is a compilation of quotes and there is also one from the bell jar in there too. Thank you to the authors who reviewed my last chapter 3

\- Remnant


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